It’s easier in daylight, but climbing Cowles in the dark takes concentration, and flashlights.

“You’re on your own, dude,” says Tim. “I ain’t coming.”

He says his gammy knee won’t handle the climb. Great: Now he tells me. On the other hand, we’re standing at the sign that has a one-word description of our impending ascent: “Difficult.” And an arrow points steeply up Cowles Mountain.

It’s still pre-dawn dark, and with sight limited, my other senses come to the fore. What hits me is the fragrance of the surrounding bushes and trees. Resiny manzanita? Whatever, this is a different world from the concrete streets we have so recently left behind (and below) us. The lights of passing cars look like slow, distant spaceships floating through the misty space. One or two birds are starting their wake-up tweets from the bushes.

I mean, it’s not like we’re hiking where no-one has hiked before. Dozens, hundreds climb Cowles every day. And yet, just off the track, the territory looks untouched. As the half-light starts gently tumbling down the slopes, it illumines vegetation that looks like a tough carpet. I bet it hasn’t changed in the 12,000 years since the Kumeyaay people started climbing this peak. It’s chest-high green all the way, except for the odd tree and, here and there, a pop-up colony of yellow daisies. As I hump up from the bottom, I’m aware of the mists spreading out below me, blocking all signs of civilization. And there’s that blanket silence, the kind you get when it’s snowing.

I want to make this climb. I want to get to what my friends call “Kumeyaay Ledge.” I’ve been here only once before, ten years ago, with my good friend Eva. She was light-footed — like a borrego, a desert sheep. I puffed behind her as we passed two groups of people, each bending over a twisted ankle. Then, the pressure was on, because we had to get to the ledge before In’ya (as the Kumeyaay call the sun) sent its first rays from the east. Why? Because, for about ten seconds, at the right time of year, not one, but if you can believe it, two suns come up.

This incredible phenomenon, which the lucky positioning of a distant mountain peak makes possible on certain days, is one astronomical reason the Kumeyaay people used to come here. They built a rock pattern — a line pointing east through a circle — so they could stand in the exact right spot. A kind of observatory. Of course, we immigrants came along, and to make the place hiker-friendly, the park’s workers unknowingly scraped away those ancient observatory stones to create a picnic area.

That last time, Eva and I just made it in time. We cut right, to a jut of land. We came upon an incredible sight in the gloaming: Dozens of hikers, standing like transfixed meerkats, all staring in one direction: east. Waiting for the first rays to lip over the mountains across the valley. In’ya was already shafting its rays down to horizontal.

“Don’t blink!” said Eva. And for an instant, two glowing balls shot across at us. “Don’t blink,” whispered Eva again. But already, the full flood of In’ya had enveloped that sun-splitting nipple mountain. There was a silence. Somebody started quietly sobbing. Somebody else said wow. It was over.

That was on a December 21st, winter solstice. This is March 21st, spring equinox. I know the positioning will be different. Still, it’s worth a shot. And I’m hoping to see what a famous Kumeyaay leader Michael Connolly Miskwish calls “The Laughing Girls” — the three stars of Orion’s Belt. But no, not today. Too much mist and cloud. Won’t see no horizontal shafts of sunlight through that. Whole project’s starting to look dodgy.

I’m about a third of the way up when I turn around. Guess I’ll come back when The Laughing Girls are clear in the predawn sky, and the mountain across the valley is ready to split In’ya again for five beautiful seconds.

“Earth to Major Tom,” says Tim, as I haul back into his Toyota pick-up. “Let’s get some breakfast. I’ll come next time.”